


Who's keeping score?

by mrua7



Series: Strange, scary stories and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. [47]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Creepy, Dreams and Nightmares, Friendship, Gen, Partnership, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: It was literally a dark and stormy night when Napoleon and Illya take refuge in a lonely motel...





	Who's keeping score?

        

 

“I wish we had known about this weather,”Illya grumbled. “Remind me to have a word with the motor pool about supplying us a car with a non-working radio.”

The wind was blowing the rain horizontally as he leaned forward close to the steering wheel of the car, trying to peer through the windshield. The wipers were doing little good.

“We are going to have to find a place to pull over Napoleon, it is too dark, and making it impossible to see with the rain. It looks as though the road is beginning to flood. I am afraid it might have been a mistake getting off the highway."

“What’s that ahead to the right?” Solo spotting a neon sign glowing brightly in florescent green, 'Motel' and the word vacancy were a welcoming sight. "Pull in there."

 

Illya made slow turn as the water on the street was splashing up against the car door.  Luckily the motel and parking lot were on higher ground.

They made a dash for the office entrance, and were met by a gangly, dark haired young man at the desk. He was soft-spoken and unobtrusive, yet there was something oddly familiar about him to the Russian.

“Awful night out there huh?” He smiled at them.

“That goes without saying,” Illya answered in a snarky tone. He sniffed the air in the dark-panelled room, finding it smelling of mold and a musty dampness. A moment later he sneezed.

“True, so gentlemen what can I do for you?”

Napoleon gave his partner an ‘oh boy’ look. “Umm, this is a motel, and your sign does say vacancy, doesn’t it?”

“Oh sorry, of course that’s what you want. Who’d want to be out on a night like this,” he chuckled somewhat nervously. Mother told me we wouldn’t have any guests, but I said we would...and so we do, now that you fellows are here. We rarely have customers since the new highway bypassed the place.”

“Where is your mother?” Illya asked, but as to why, Napoleon thought it odd his partner asked such a thing..

“Oh she’s at our house, it’s right up the hill.  She has a perfect view of the motel.  Poor thing doesn’t get around too much, stairs are just difficult for her, so she just sits in her rocking chair looking out at the world. I love my mother dearly and she loves me...after all "A boy's best friend is his mother.”

“Now will that be a two singles or a double.”

“A double will be fine,” Napoleon answered. He turned the register around signing it for both of them.

Illya suddenly cleared his throat,”Napoleon, I think the rain is letting up, perhaps we can...”

There was a loud thunderclap as the rain drove even harder against the windowpane of the office and backlit against the lightning flash that lit up the entire sky was the silhouette of an old Victorian house up on the hill.

That seemed to make his usually placid partner even more uncomfortable. Solo looked at Illya like he was crazy.

The desk clerk turned the register on the front desk back to face him, looking at the names.  “Okay, Mr.  ummm... Smith and Mr. Jones, welcome.  Here’s your keys to room number 17 it’s at the end of the building.”

“The ice and vending machines are in the alcove just around the corner from the office.  I close up at midnight, so if you have an emergency, just dial 1 on the telephone, it’ll automatically transfer up to a phone I have at the house. The office is actually kept unlocked, there's a kitchen in there if you need to use it to make some coffee or tea, help yourselves as it's on the house.

He flicked a switch on the desk indicating ‘no vacancy’ though there were no vehicles other than the agent’s car  in the parking lot, most likely there'd be no more guests tonight due to the storm and surely the man wanted to go home.

Illya unhappily snatched the keys from the clerk, heading straight for the door.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, that’ll be fifteen dollars...”

The Russian looked impatiently at his partner, already turning the handle.

“I take it I’m paying,” Napoleon droned, though Illya was already out the door. He took out his wallet, begrudgingly pulling out the cash, looking just a little annoyed.

“Thank you Mr. Smith, I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“And your name is …?”’

“Oh you can call me Norm.”

“Say Norm, the road is flooding pretty bad, there isn’t a chance it’ll reach up here...no past history, that is?”

“Nope, we’ve never flooded.”

“Thanks,” Napoleon gave him a little salute before walking out the door.  He spotted Illya carrying both their valises, heading at a brisk pace to their room.

Illya unlocked the door and tossing the bags to the floor, he, slammed it closed behind him.

“Oh crap,” Napoleon swore, realizing the man had somehow gotten into a foul mood.

“Hey, open up,” he pounded on the door, ‘Let me in for Christsakes, I’m getting soaked out here.” He heard the deadbolt click, and turning the knob, he let himself in.

As he removed his wet jacket, and hung it up on a hook on the back of the door, he stared down the Russian.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Illya flopped down on the end his bed, looking unusually nervous. “I am not comfortable staying in this place, I tried to tell you that, but you ignored me.”

“Oh God, here we go...what’s wrong now?” Napoleon asked, keeping himself calm.

“Did you not see that man’s face, and his reference to his ‘mother’...and the house on the hill, with her watching from her rocking chair, and...and we are in room number seventeen. Please tell me his name is not Norman, or Bates for that matter?”

“Well now that you mention it, his name is Norm Bateman... wait Norman Bates? Don’t tell me you’re paranoid because of a horror movie?”

“Actually, yes I am.”

Napoleon let out a loud laugh. “And I suppose since you’re the blond, you must be Marion Crane and are going to be slashed to death in the shower...hmmm which means I could be Milton Arbogast.”

“No, I suppose not, but it all seems too much of a coincidence. The storm and all of it just has me jittery.” Illya stood up from the bed and began to pace.

“Yeah right,” Napoleon snickered.”The things you’ve seen and gone through in life and a movie has you upset?”

“Napoleon! I should not have said anything to you!” Illya huffed.”Just forget about it. I will be fine.”

“Well if you’re okay, then I dare you to take a shower.”

Illya didn’t look too happy about that challenge and now felt pressured to prove otherwise to his partner. “Fine then,I will,” Illya snapped, heading to the bathroom.

“Fine you do that, tovarisch.” Napoleon called out to him..

Illya turned on the spigot, letting the water warm up as he stripped off his clothing. hanging his suit up so as the steam would help smooth out any wrinkles. They’d not come prepared with luggage as this trip was supposed to be a simple milk run.

Perhaps it wasn’t that movie that had him on edge. Illya would not admit to Napoleon that his sixth sense seemed to be kicking in, warning him something wasn’t right, but whether it had to do with the motel, he really wasn’t sure.

He stepped under the hot water, letting it run down his back, soothing his tired muscles and  grabbing  the soap, he lathered himself, rinsed, after which he used the motel shampoo sample, washing his hair.

All the while he had a niggling feeling, making his skin tingle, and as he turned facing the shower curtain, he saw the silhouette of someone raising their hand above their head, with ‘bozhe moy’...what looked like a knife?

Illya ripped the curtain aside, ready to take a dive at the intruder.

Napoleon broke out in uncontrolled laughter as he lowered his comb.  “Got you! If you could just see your face!”

“Not funny.” Illya reached over to the shower head, turning it on his partner, getting him right in the face with a spray of water.

“Aw Jeeze, Illya!” Napoleon barked.”It was just a joke.”

“It was not a good joke!”  The Russian grabbed his clothes, slamming the bathroom door after him, missing his partner sticking his tongue out at him.

The next morning, when Napoleon was taking his shower, he heard a noise in the bathroom, figuring it was Illya, who hadn’t said a word to him the rest of the night, before they’d both fallen asleep.  It was a restless sleep with the wind howling, and rain tapping against the window, punctuated by loud thunderclaps.

“Illya?” He pulled the shower curtain aside, seeing no one there, but his eyes were instantly drawn to the bathroom sink. Lying on the edge, stark against the white porcelain, was a long bloodied butcher knife...

“Oh-my-God,” He moaned grabbing a towel, thinking the Russian was getting even for the joke, but a little voice inside him warned him to be concerned he’d find his partner dead in the next room. A bloody knife evoked a different reaction to a covert agent and for that split second, Napoleon thought the worst.

Napoleon rushed out, but stopped dead in his tracks when seeing Illya sitting on the edge of the bed, with his legs crossed and his arms folded casually in front of his chest.

“Now the shoe is on the other foot,” the Russian smiled.

Not to be outdone, Napoleon calmed himself instantly as if it were nothing.“So you finally got that right; it’s about time,” he snickered.

“Got what right?”

“The saying the shoe is on the other foot.”

Illya huffed, disappointed his little ruse did not work at well as he’d hoped.

“Admit it Napoleon, for a brief second you thought I had been murdered...slashed to death with that knife.”

Napoleon toweled dry, and dressed himself as finally answered the question. “All right, yeah sure, you got me.”  He managed to smile, just a little.

Illya snapped his fingers, pleased at his little victory.

“Hey, don’t think this puts you ahead tovarisch,if you’re keeping score,” Napoleon warned.

“Perish the thought,” the Russian half-smiled.

At that moment they both saw a woman with her grey hair up in a bun, wearing a long dark dress move past their window. Thanks to the power of Illya’s suggestions, even Napoleon had an instant image of the character Norman Bates dressed as his mother, off to murder an innocent motel guest.

“Illya, where did you get that butcher knife?”

“It was in the office kitchen, why?”

“Did it have that blood on it when you took it?”

“Yes it was in the sink, not washed,” the Russian stared at him now.

“Didn’t you think it a little strange that it was bloody?”

“Not really, I just assumed it was from some piece of meat....there was a half-eaten steak left on a nearby plate and it was very rare.  Napoleon, what is wrong?”

Though it was barely passed dawn, Solo nervously replied, thinking Illya might just have been right about how creepy this place was.

“Let’s hit the road before something really does happen.”

“Thank you for finally seeing my point of view,” Illya grabbed their suitcases, heading towards the door without a moments hesitation, and Napoleon was right behind him...

 


End file.
